


a lone star shining (sun is rising)

by hito



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Feelings, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, also includes explicit het, where did all these feelings come from?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:12:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John leaves the hotel before the night is out. Episode tag for 215.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lone star shining (sun is rising)

The bed in the penthouse is endlessly wide, the bedding luxurious and cloud-like, cradling them even as it flattens under their weight. John is trying not to compare this to anything, not to the bed in his home, chosen by Finch, smaller and more comfortable for its familiarity; not to the beds in hotel rooms he'd slept in alone on ops with Kara, or the ones he'd shared with her later. 

He's trying very hard not to compare what's happening with Zoe to anything at all. 

Her strong legs are tight around his hips, goading him on as he fucks hard into her the way he used to do to Kara, the way Kara had done to him, and that's fine, that's something he knows how to deal with, even if it isn't something he cares to recall. 

The smile she throws him as she tilts her head back in enjoyment is something else, the simple pleasure in her grown strange, lost to time and distance and death, and she's nothing like Jessica, but he closes his eyes against the assault anyway. 

"John," she says, voice throaty and amused, and he pushes his face into her shoulder and gasps against her breast. "Don't choke on me now." 

He hadn't been aware that he had stilled, but she gets him moving again with the blunt application of a heel, and he huffs out something that might somehow distort into an attempt at a laugh. When he opens his eyes, she's grinning up at him, and her eyes are warm and softening with arousal as she keeps them going, speeding towards the finish line. 

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says sincerely, and forces himself to keep looking at her as he pushes closer, rocks deeper. 

It does feel a little like choking, though, like he's struggling desperately for breath, aching to drag air past the obstruction, past the strangling grip of history, the memories that are swamping him even now, as his hips speed up without permission. 

Zoe is nothing like Jessica, and John wishes he could tell himself that he doesn't know why this is more difficult than it ever was with Kara. 

"That's it," she says, voice a low hum of approval. "Right there." 

He watches her dark hair, her tanned skin, and his chest clenches at how different she is from both of them, from everything he has ever known, and maybe she isn't what he wants, but he can have this, he can let himself do this. 

He does: he keeps moving the way she wants, adding a little twist at the end of each thrust. It makes her mouth open and her head press into the mattress, and when he reaches between them to touch her the way she'd shown him she likes earlier she comes. 

Her back curves, lifting her shoulders off the mattress, and he shouldn't be surprised by any of this, but he is; he's surprised by the way she tightens around him, by the joy that rushes over her face before it fades into a haze of satisfaction; and he's surprised that he enjoys it, that his own hips jerk into her as he comes, and that he can smile against her mouth as the feeling shudders through him. 

Most of all, he's surprised at how little it hurts. 

He drops onto his back beside her after a minute, and then she's shifting around, leaving the bed before his brain is back online. 

"I know you're here for the night, but I have plans for dinner," she says, sliding back into her dress. "We should do this again some time." 

She doesn't kiss him as she leaves, just drags her fingers over his shoulder on her way out the door, like she doesn't know, hasn't noticed that he's so much more affected by this than she is. 

John has always been good at concealment, but none of his usual skills seem to be quite under his command right now and he doesn't think he managed to hide anything from those sharp eyes. 

He stays where he is, on white sheets that are still mostly clean, and stares up at the shadowed white ceiling, gasping, changed. 

*

John doesn't end up staying the night either. 

His mind is blank as he walks through the streets, but he knows where he's going, knows what he's doing. 

The lights in the library are low, but there's movement, life, and John stops for a moment so that he can stare at the figure in front of the computer, at the tension in his shoulders as he taps at the keyboard, at the frown that isn't quite hidden by his glasses. 

"Harold," he says, and tries not to wonder at the sound of his own voice. "Harold." 

It's too long before Harold turns to him. "Mr Reese," he says. "I wasn't expecting you." He blinks owlishly at John. 

"I'm always here," John says, moving towards him slowly. 

"Not true." Harold sounds annoyed. "And I thought you would have better things to do this evening." 

And there's something else that John shouldn't be surprised by: that Harold knows where he was earlier, and exactly what he was doing. John had booked a suite in Harold's hotel with a credit card with which Harold had provided him; he hadn't been trying to hide. 

"No," he says helplessly. "There's nothing better to do." 

Harold takes a second to process that and then turns back to the screen. "There's no new number as yet, so you are quite free--" 

"Were you watching?" John asks. "Did you watch us?" 

"I did not," Harold says. "I'm not a voyeur, Mr Reese." 

"I know." 

John hesitates before he lets his hand touch Harold's shoulder, but he does it. He can do this, now. 

Harold turns stiffly, head moving as much as it is able so that he can stare at John's hand on him. John doesn't remove it. 

"What are you doing?" Harold asks. It's less precise than John is used to from Harold, which is a good sign, he thinks. 

He can't think much at all right now, though, one fixed idea in his head, one thing he wants beyond all consideration. "Anything," he says, going down on one knee beside Harold's chair. "I can do anything." 

Harold looks surprised, and he lets John see it, which is the more unexpected thing, because Harold may not have been taught protective concealment the way John was, but he learnt it all the same, wounded as he has been. 

"Is it that--" 

John knows that he should listen to Harold, but he's leaning forward as the words are spoken, and he hopes Harold will forgive him this once. His mouth closes over Harold's, warm and dry, a comforting, gentle touch until Harold's mouth moves slightly, jarring him out of his certain desire into this place where they are _kissing_. 

John gasps into Harold's mouth, already open for him, and he settles his shaking hands down into Harold's lap. 

"Is it that simple, Mr Reese?" he finishes. "You've had sex, so now you know you can?" 

"That's not--" It isn't fair, and that stings, coming from Harold, but that isn't a complaint John can make and Harold knows it anyway, so instead he says, "That isn't what I want," which is close enough to true and far more important. 

He lets his hand open and curl closely around Harold's thigh, looks up at him steadily until Harold says, "John," softly, not quite an objection. 

"You're not simple, Harold," John says, smiling. 

"I think you may be about to about to discover that you are mistaken about that, John," Harold says. 

The evenness of his voice makes John's pulse jump. 

"Please," John says, and it's a request, an appeal. 

His hand tightens on Harold's thigh, but Harold doesn't seem to notice. 

"Yes," Harold replies, and John exhales. "Did you think I would say no?" John shrugs, doesn't meet his eyes. "Are you afraid of what will happen, now that I've said yes?" 

"I've had sex before, Harold," John murmurs. 

"I know," Harold says. "And you know that isn't what I meant." 

He stands and moves to the couch. John follows him, distracted from the question by thoughts of what they're about to do, what Harold will be able to do on that hard couch, what his body can take. He gets on his knees between Harold's, but Harold holds him away when he stretches for another kiss. 

"This doesn't change anything," he tells Harold. "There's always reason for me to be afraid. There always has been." 

"And you've never acted. Nothing has changed. There is still reason for fear." 

"But I don't have to be alone," John says helplessly, feeling Harold warm and alive beneath his hands, the unexpected vibrant restlessness that takes him sometimes humming out of his body into the air, into John, making him shiver, making him smile, bright and edged. "And I don't want to be alone. And there will always be reason." 

Whatever concern it is that's distracting Harold's mind seems to fade at that, because he looks at John, focuses all his attention on John, and says, "That has been true for a while. Are you just noticing that tonight, John?" 

"What?" John asks, fingers touching the buttons of Harold's shirt, slipping between them to touch skin. 

"You're _not_ alone," Harold says, strong and stark enough to arrest the movement of John's hands, to arrest his mind entirely. "You have to know that isn't the case." 

"Yes," John says, more breath than voice. 

"Are you just figuring that out?" Harold asks consideringly, head tilting as he regards John. "I do apologise. That was an oversight on my part." 

"No," John says meaninglessly. 

"You will not be alone again," Harold tells him. John knows that's true, thinks of Root, who had taken Harold away from him, and Carter, who had helped him get Harold back, had stayed even when Harold wasn't there. "Even if I were to--" 

"Don't," John says fiercely. "Don't." 

Harold doesn't stop the kiss this time, lets John press him back against the couch. 

"Don't," John says again, and Harold doesn't make any promises, but he kisses John back. 

The sweep of his tongue into John's mouth washes his mind clean. It's been a long time since John has been kissed, longer still since he has wanted somebody to kiss him. He makes a hungry, stricken noise, and Harold takes John's chin in his fingers, keeps feasting at his mouth as he regards John curiously through his glasses. 

"Don't stop," John says, though Harold isn't, though he knows Harold won't. 

Harold smiles anyway. "You have a considerable opinion of my powers of restraint," he says, amused, and then his eyes drift over John's face, over his body where it's shaking between his spread legs. "Though perhaps that high opinion is not unjustified." 

And Harold isn't restraining himself now, so the admission in that shudders through John. He leans forwards until his chest is pressed against Harold's as he kisses Harold wildly, until his hands slide to rest on Harold's hips, sharp through the thin, smooth fabric of his pants. 

"I want--" 

"What do you want?" 

Harold draws away a little to hear John's answer, lips trailing over his jaw, hands coming down to curl over John's fists, hold them secure in his lap. 

John wants a lot of things, and most of them he can't have, so he says, "I want to make you come," and tugs at Harold's fly until the buttons give way. 

"I have no objection to offer," Harold says. John might have believed the easy distance in his voice once, but he knows better now; Harold doesn't even bother trying to hide the wry kick of self-mockery in that, broadcasting it at John as he puts his hands flat on the seat of the couch and leans back a little, taking his weight on the heels of his hands so that John has room to work. 

Harold's pants are spread open before him, and it takes less than a moment to reach inside, bypass the silky boxers, and pull out Harold's cock so that he can put his mouth on it. 

The noise Harold makes is startled, but John disregards it, unwilling to be distracted, to devote his mind to anything but the warm skin under his lips, the hardness that swells and fills his mouth as he sucks deeply. 

He moves too fast, too eager in his starvation, and one of Harold's hands comes to rest on his head when he pulls back up. He wishes Harold would speak, the way he always does so John knows he's there, on the other side of a satellite and closer than anyone has been in a very long time. He wishes Harold would tell him what to do, would direct the movements of his head so that John could be sure he was giving pleasure; he is getting so much pleasure from this that he has very little attention to spare for what Harold might like. 

When he slides down again Harold's fingers trace the curve of his ear, linger behind the lobe, so John stays where he is. He means to stay where he is, but he swallows Harold down, desire overriding thought, and Harold's hips twitch under him, twitch into him, trying to work deeper. John holds him down and does it for him. 

He isn't sure how long he stays there, but when Harold comes he slides down as far as he can, wanting to stay where he is, keep doing this, and then he pulls all the way off to get a taste. 

Harold bites off a ragged sound at the rub of John's tongue up the underside of his cock, over the sensitive head, and John smiles, pleased with himself, happy with what he has done. 

He isn't sure why he starts trembling. 

Harold pulls him up onto the couch beside him and lays him out, encourages the encroaching sprawl of his body. 

"I'm afraid I'm not up to your acrobatics," Harold says, "but I hope this will suffice." 

His hands are less clumsy than John's had been, quick and assured on both John's clothing and his body. 

"Harold," John says roughly, when Harold starts an easy glide with his hand, slicking a path over his leaking cock, fingers spreading the liquid everywhere. 

"Yes?" 

He laughs, lets the arm of the couch take the weight of his back. "You don't expect me to talk, do you?" He's watching Harold as Harold watches him, rapt, unable to look away from Harold's face, reassuringly known and sure, exactly where it belongs for all the newness of this.

"Not if you don't want to." 

John whines as Harold's fingers tease the head of his cock, working him perfectly. He's already come once tonight, but he isn't sure how long he can make this last. He tries to force his reaction down, but he knows Harold hasn't missed it, and there might not be anything he can do about that. He doesn't want to come yet, he wants-- 

"I'm too old for this." 

"You're significantly younger than I am, John. Your pillow-talk leaves something to be desired." 

Harold's words are light, but John can't hold back his response. 

"I didn't think I'd ever do this again," he says, and pants, before attempting to speak again. "I didn't--" 

"And now you've done it twice in one night." 

Harold sounds approving, and John should tease him, wants to tease him, but he wants to tell him more. 

"I was supposed to be with her," he says, body arching as Harold's hand tightens. Harold knows this already, probably. "I was always supposed to be with her, and it was fine when I thought she had her choice, when she was still a possibility, but--" 

He breaks off when Harold rolls a circle around the head, drags his thumb over the slit, but when he prompts, "Yes?" John swallows and tries to think. 

"I didn't think I'd ever be able to do this again." His eyes are closed, blackness starting to glow with colour, and if his voice is unsteady it's only because he's about to come. "I didn't think I could ever have this again." Harold is tugging quickly now, short hard strokes exactly where John wants them, and his hips are fucking towards Harold, whole body rolling with the motion. "I am afraid. I _should_ be afraid. I wasn't supposed to do this. But I did, and--" 

"You are," Harold says. 

"--and I want--" 

Something he can have, maybe. 

"Yes," Harold says. 

"--you," John gasps, and reaches down to clasp Harold's speeding hand, laces their fingers together and works in tandem with Harold, comfortable and unbearably exciting and exactly what he wants. "Even if you die, even if--" 

"Yes," Harold says softly, and moves his hand the way he knows John wants, vicious and irresistible. "That's right, that's--" 

John thinks Harold says something else, but he's coming, and the world is bright and full and perfect for as long as it lasts, and he knows Harold will understand. 

When he's aware again, he smiles sleepily at Harold, shifting until the wooden arm of the couch isn't digging into his back. 

"I can _have_ this now," John says. "Until--" 

Harold has pulled a handkerchief from somewhere and is wiping at John's stomach, but he pauses to look at John. 

"Yes," he says again, and John hears it, sighs in satisfied wonder. 

"Thank you." 

"Although I must inform you that the vast likelihood is that you will die before I, John," Harold says, pulling John's pants closed and standing, shuffling over to retrieve his coat and gesturing for John to join him, perhaps in a new bed, one that will become familiar and welcoming. 

And John wants to, John plans to, but first he has to laugh and laugh and laugh at the kindness. 

end.


End file.
